


The Adventure of the Seventh Safeguard

by Charlotte_Ann_Kent



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awesome Mary Morstan, Best Friends, Case Fic, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Detectives, Father-Daughter Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Harry Potter - Sherlock Holmes crossover, It's For a Case, John Watson Has a Daughter, Male Friendship, Married Characters, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mary Lives, Modern Era, Mystery, POV First Person, POV John Watson, Parent-Child Relationship, Potterlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Versus Voldemort, Teenagers, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Wizarding World, harry potter meets sherlock holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-28
Packaged: 2018-10-18 22:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlotte_Ann_Kent/pseuds/Charlotte_Ann_Kent
Summary: “This is it, John! This is precisely what I needed. I’ve been trying to figure this society’s workings from the outside. But these children, they are inside! By the way, a word of warning– their choices of words are extremely odd.”“I noticed. They really call themselves wizards?”“Yes but don’t allow that to make you think that the matter isn’t a very serious one indeed.”“Are you sure you can trust them? They wanted to knock us out and take our memories. What if they actually are with Riddle? Aren’t you taking quite a chance?”“They’re not with Riddle. And of course I’m taking a chance. It’s too excellent a one to pass up! You don’t have to stay though, if you’d rather not. They’d obviously want to erase your memory of the evening before you leave.” He hesitated. “It seems to be a perfectly safe procedure, medically speaking, assuming you don’t mind someone stealing things out of your head.”“Of course I’m not leaving.”He smiled. “I knew you weren’t. If you are coming, I wouldn’t count on getting home tonight. Better let Mary know. In the interests of diplomacy, just say that the Bones and Burbage cases have turned out to be linked, and we’re following a scent while it’s still warm.”





	1. The Strange Case of Amelia Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:  
> This work was started some time back as a thought experiment. The question was simply, 'what would have happened in the last Harry Potter book if it had been Sherlock Holmes's mind applied to the case?' The whole novel that follows was an attempt to step by step work through that question. Of course, for the purpose of experiment the 'case' being experimented had to be left completely intact. The Harry Potter storyline in this work is assumed to be completely canon in every way up to the moment where Harry Potter's and Sherlock Holmes' path cross, and all alterations which follow happen as a direct result of that. Now, for the Sherlock Holmes half of the equation, it is not any particular storyline, but simply the character of the detective that was the important factor. As such I have freely moved Doyle's character around in time, adopted plausible alterations on that basis, and gladly borrowed from other adaptations when I saw fit. But although the Sherlock storyline in this tale may be not-quite fitting any other version, I have attempted to be strictly 'in-character' with both him and John Watson at all points. If you were to ask what version of Sherlock Holmes this is, the truest answer would probably be 'Doyle in the 21st century' – BBC imagery notwithstanding (it's great imagery).  
> Hopefully this novel will be updated on a weekly basis. But if you search for the story's name, you'll probably be able find it on my website (Of Ships and Stars And Meadows Green).  
> Thanks for reading! Tell me what you think of my handling of the question.  
> [This non-commercial, derivative work is an independent production by Charlotte Ann Kent and is not associated with The Doyle Estate, the BBC, Warner Bros, or J.K. Rowling. All copyrights belong to the original owners.]

[ ](https://http://charlottarose.deviantart.com/art/The-Adventure-of-the-Seventh-Safeguard-673541258)

* * *

 

/ [Homepage](https://charlotteannrose.wordpress.com/sherlock-holmes-and-the-adventure-of-the-seventh-safeguard) /

I had never known my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, to be as totally preoccupied with anything so deeply and for such a long time since the death of the late Professor Moriarty as he was over the course of the year preceding this narrative. And never, in all the years I had known him, had he been as recalcitrant in answering questions.

For some months, I had thought it was just the strange case of Ms. Bones which had absorbed him so thoroughly. Ms. Amelia Bones, a quiet middle aged lady living alone in London, had been found dead in her home. All the doors and windows had been locked from the inside and there was no evidence of a break-in, yet there were clear marks of a desperate struggle. Sherlock had originally scoffed at the sensational nature of the reports, and lost no time getting on the case himself. He told the police that the people they were looking for were four in number, dressed in long cloaks, three men and a woman, that the woman was unusually tall, with long dark hair, long nails, and a somewhat hysterical personality, and that the actual murder had been done by one of the men – who had small feet with long toes, was thin, even taller than the woman, and who had stood in the middle of the room talking for some time after the initial struggle, before he actually killed his victim. When asked by the police how these persons got into the locked room, and then back out again without unlocking the doors, breaking the windows, or leaving their tracks anywhere except the room of the murder, Mr. Holmes fixed the officer with a strange look and replied simply: “They teleported.”

After this he was always busy. I was not surprised, for I knew he could not be satisfied until he had gotten to the bottom of the mystery. I did not for one second believe that he really meant that they had teleported, supposing this to be merely sarcasm. He several times took great interest in cases which seemed simple enough to everyone else. He would be absent from London for days at a time, and neglect to volunteer information about where he had been. When asked he would be, as it seemed to me at the time, deliberately evasive. He also, and this to me seemed the strangest thing of all, took up studies of a new and most unusual kind. I could not find the common point in his research; everything from highly technical works on the most up-to-date and abstract micro-physics, to paranormal theories I would have expected him to give a mile’s berth. When I asked if I could help, he assured me that he would be certain to call on me if there was anything I could do … but he still didn’t say what he was up to.

All through this of course, he kept on with his normal work, handling at least as many, perhaps more, cases that year than usual.

It was on the first of August that I finally heard something of the theory which had preoccupied my friend so entirely for so many months. We had just returned from Cornwall, upon an investigation into the disappearance of a young lady by the name of Charity Burbage. She had not, it appeared, been seen for several weeks by the time Sherlock Holmes was called to the case, and there had been little that even he could ascertain from her house by that time. There was no sign of a break in; she might have just left it for the afternoon. She was reported by the neighbours to be a friendly and outgoing woman who spent most of the year up north, where she apparently worked as a teacher. But no one could provide any concrete details on her work or her colleagues. We went back to London that night, as I thought, little the wiser about the young lady’s fate. Sherlock was quiet on the train; I guessed that this time even he was stumped. Rather than returning straight to our homes, he to Baker Street and I to St. Anne Street, we stopped in a small café for a late supper.

The room was empty and rather dingy, and my companion was still wrapped in a taciturn reverie, so I busied myself with the evening paper whilst we ate (or rather I, for he ordered only a coffee). There was a television playing in the corner. My companion’s back was to it, and he showed no signs of being aware of it, or of anything in the café. It took me by surprise, therefore, when the introspective thinker suddenly awoke; his face had become intent and he swung quickly around to look over his shoulder. A news report was playing and it was clearly this which had caught his ear.

“… but by the time the firemen and rescue personnel arrived on the scene, there was no sign of the reported conflagration. A second witness claims to have heard cries at about the time of the initial report, which he said could have been coming from near the corner of Dwight and Forth Streets, but he admits that he might have been mistaken. It remains unclear whether the whole affair was an elaborate joke, if something did indeed happen at the corner, or if someone made a genuine mistake. Meanwhile, at Windsor …”

Sherlock drew his phone from the pocket of his blazer as he turned away. From the suppressed excitement of his face, and the urgency of his movements, it was clear that this story meant a great deal more to him than it did to me.

“You think the incident has some bearing on a case?” I asked, attempting to discern the cause of his reaction.

“Yes indeed it does, if I am not gravely mistaken. A rather great bearing. I was expecting something of the sort.”

“Expecting pranksters?”

“It wasn’t a prank.” he replied, apparently carrying on two conversations at once, for he was texting quite hastily. “I’m sure there really was a fire, or something very closely resembling one. It had just been put out before the rescue team got there.”

“By whom?”

“Probably by the people who started it.”

“You expected arson?” I said in surprise. “Shouldn’t you then have warned the police?”

“Why, my dear fellow, you do me an injustice. … I did not in fact inform Scotland Yard, but _Mycroft_  knew full well to watch out for disturbances and suspicious sightings in that area.” He chuckled; his brother’s position in the governement gave him significantly better powers of observation than the police had easy access to. “I rather fancied Scotland Yard might be a bit out of their depth.”

“Well …” I said, looking in surprise at Sherlock, whose expression had immediately lapsed back from the brief chuckle into that of serious concentration, “apparently, so was Mycroft.”

“That report had almost nothing. All we know is that  _something_  happened there at nine o’clock this evening.”

These strange assertions did little to enlighten me.

“Sherlock … this doesn’t have anything to do with the Amelia Bones case, does it?”

“You are quite on the mark this evening, John.” “It has  _everything_  to do with Amelia Bones. … Mycroft knows almost as little as we do. The alarm of fire was given by one of the agents he had stationed there and the other is missing.”

“ _Mycroft_  stationed agents at the corners of Dwight and Forth Streets?!” I said in shock. “What were you expecting to happen? Your brother doesn’t post agents over suspected arson.”

“It wasn’t arson.” he said. “It was a battle. … Gang warfare, John.”

“Gang? The gang that killed Ms. Bones, you mean?”

“Exactly. In fact I have reason to believe that it was her murderer who led this attack.”

Thrilled at finally getting a hint of what he’d been up to all this time, I pursued the thread.

“Who was the murderer?”

“A dangerous and highly unusual man. Tall, thin, long-fingered, cruel, arrogant, fond of the sound of his own voice, violently racist towards ordinary Englishmen, the owner of an extremely large and remarkably well trained python, possessing a great amount of resources, an extraordinary variety of odd technology, and who appears to be the leader of a murderous organization which is very well hidden but spread throughout all of Britain.”

“He’s the … leader of a gang?”

“Yes.”

“What do you mean he’s racist towards ordinary Englishmen? Do you mean class hatred?”

“No.” he fixed me with an odd look. “I mean people like you and me, John.”

My confusion must have shown on my face, for he continued wryly:

“Yes, that does happen. It unfortunately happens more often than you’d think. This gang leader is only one such.”

“Who is he?”

“His name you mean?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well, of this I cannot be sure … but I have a theory. I believe, or rather to be fair, I think it highly likely, his name is Riddle.”

“Just Riddle? Is that some sort of …”

“No no, nothing of the kind. But I have reason to believe that he was the son of a country squire named Thomas Riddle, which would make his surname Riddle.”

“Well,  _that_  doesn’t sound so very far from ordinary. What exactly do you mean by …” I broke off as his gaze suddenly flashed to the door. A pair of teenagers had just come in together, a girl and a boy. Besides the slightly odd fact that the girl was wearing a lovely lavender party dress while the boy was in worn jeans and a rumpled orange sweatshirt, I could see nothing about them to warrant interest. But I could see that Sherlock, though pretending to play with his phone, was really watching them very closely. They took a booth near the door, and sat there, looking a bit uncomfortable. They were speaking to each other, but in whispers I could not pick up.

“What is it?” I asked my companion.

“They’re fugitives.” he said beneath his breath, still playing with the phone.

“How do you make that out?”

“Look at them. They’ve just come from a formal event. Look at her clothes and hair. But they left in a hurry. He was wearing dress clothes too, but changed out of them quickly. He pulled on the clothes he’s wearing now fast and carelessly. But he’s still wearing his dress shoes. They were at the event together then, but he changed. Why? Not for practicality’s sake. If that had been the case she’d have taken off those heels. Perhaps because his clothes would stand out more than hers. … Long robes, for instance.” He gave me a look, as if wondering whether I got something. Then I remembered he had described Ms. Bones’ assailants as wearing long cloaks or robes. “They are clearly nervous, perhaps they expect to be followed. The young lady keeps looking over her shoulder at the door. So, they left a party in a great hurry, were worried they would stand out, fear attack … and don’t know what to do next. You can see from their manner that they are uncertain.”

“Maybe it’s just a bad date?”

“No. That wouldn’t explain him changing his outfit. And hers is too formal for that. And they aren’t nervous about each other. Look at the way she’s leaning across the table towards him, it’s almost conspiratorial, they’re very used to each other. They can’t be out of school yet, or at least he can’t. But they aren’t related, at least not closely. … First of all there’s their appearance, absolutely no family resemblance. Then there’s their clothes. Her things appear new. Not his.”

“Well, hers are formal wear.”

“Yes, but he’s still wearing his formal shoes. Did you notice the soles? Almost worn through. A boy that age doesn’t usually fit a pair of dress shoes long enough to wear them through. They’re hand-me-downs then, or second-hand. Her family has to be at least solidly middle-class. His is short on money. These school children are not close relatives then, but still very familiar. School friends then. And what might we deduce about their companion?”

“ _Companion_?” I asked, trying to keep my voice down in my surprise. “ _Sherlock_ , there’s only two of them.”

“Yes. I wouldn’t expect you to notice him. But this isn’t the first time this year I’ve happened across difficult to see things. Did you notice the way they walked in? She came first, and he followed some space behind her, pausing just momentarily, but leaving a good space between them. She sat down right away in the left hand side, but he waited before taking the opposite seat; looking not at her but at the seat. It shifted, just slightly,  _before_  he sat down. There is a third person sitting next to him on the right hand bench.”

“But how …”

“The manipulation of light waves to bend  _around_  an object rather than bouncing off it has been theorized. Of course, none of our scientists have yet managed to make such an object, but this group has done enough strange things that we have not that I find it not in the slightest difficult to conceive that they have done this also. Especially since the proof sits in front of me.”

“Well then,” I said, with raised eyebrows, “what  _can_  be deduced about him … or her?”

“ _Him_ , I think, though I shalln’t insist on this point. Judging by the shifting of the bench, I’d say he’s slightly lighter than his red-headed friend (how tall it is impossible to say). Unlikely to be a full grown man then, although he  _could_  be a small one. Possibly he could be a woman. But more likely another teenager. And look at their manner to him. They aren’t directly addressing him, and he hasn’t ordered a drink. … They are pretending there’s only two of them, but they keep giving off subtle cues showing that the third person is very much a part of their little group. When she bends across the table, it isn’t directly towards the red-head. Their posture takes him into account. They probably don’t even realize it. They don’t look directly at the corner seat much, but they keep glancing towards it, not nervously, but conversationally, and at least in her case, rather sympathetically. Whoever is sitting there is clearly not only an ally, but as familiar as they are to each other, they neither avoid him, nor defer to him, he is solidly one of them. … In all likelihood a third school friend. A little knot of three.

“But it is only he who is invisible. It’s probably a small piece of equipment, worn like a cloak or a poncho. Since they are obviously keen on not being seen, they would clearly all be wearing them if they had them, but they are not, so they only have one. And  _he_  gets it. Why?”

“Because … it’s  _him,_  or her, that’s actually in danger?”

“A sound conclusion. For some reason, the third person is either in more danger, or is more likely to be noticed, or both.” continued Sherlock. “He gets the invisibility cloak.”

“ _Invisibility cloak_.” I said with half a laugh shaking my head. “Sherlock, you have a point, but that sounds so …”

“So what?”

“….  _Silly_.”

“No, not at all. In theory it’s really rather simple, you merely…”

“No, I don’t need a science lecture. … I’ll take your word for it. … Now, why are they on the run? Something to do with that … battle you mentioned?”

“The two incidents are too close for them to be coincidental. There’s something going on there at the corner of Dwight and Forth, related to this secret minority or gang. I’ve been keeping a close eye on it, and have very good reason to believe that it is something of a centre of operations.”

“What have you seen?”

“It’s more what I haven’t.” he said. “I don’t normally wake up on Northumberland street with no idea how I got there, but with a clear memory of having intended to search Dwight and Forth that morning.”

“You think that someone messed with your mind?”

“I’m sure that they did.”

“And you’ve no idea what happened that day?”

“Oh, I have a very good  _idea_.” He smiled grimly. “But I have absolutely no ‘memory’ of the hours between ten and one. … Clearly …”

“I see. … And, is this the only time this has happened?”

He shook his head. “No, something similar has happened on at least two other occasions since I got on the case – possibly three.”

“So, you obviously found something …”

“And they took it back. Yes.” he snapped. “But I’m quite certain about Dwight and Forth. They didn’t see me every time – I was quite right in telling Hopkins about the long robes and cloaks, by the way.” His momentary irritation had faded. “So, a battle happens at a central base of operations, almost immediately thereafter, three school children run away in the middle of a formal party, try to blend in among normal people, aren’t sure where to go or what to do now, expect attack, and bother to make one of their number invisible.”

“Their side lost the battle.” I said, but this time I wasn’t asking.

“I think they must have. And for some reason these three children expected immediate recrimination. Why? They’re just teenagers. It’s difficult to see why they would be special targets.”

“But what is  _really_  under the cloak?”

“Yes, I think that has to be it.  _He_  is on the run, and they have accompanied their friend. So, the third person is someone of importance to this secret war, on the side which has just lost a battle, and unless I’m gravely mistaken, against the side which is responsible for Ms. Bones murder and Miss Burbage’s abduction.”

“Wait. Miss Burbage was abducted? You didn’t say that before. How do you know that, there was nothing in her house to …”

“She was abducted.” he said, as if there could be no mistake about the matter. “I’m afraid it is highly unlikely that she is still alive. And even if she were, it would be impossible for the police to effect a rescue at this stage. But this teen …” He broke off, his eyes flashed to the door, where two big, ill-tempered looking men in road-work uniforms had just come in. They stomped to a table behind us, near the teens, out of my sight. Sherlock, though he kept his face mostly in the direction of his phone, clearly found something either interesting or alarming about them (probably both, I thought to myself).

“Humph.” he observed. “Didn’t even bother to scuff up their boots. John, I did recommend you bring your handgun today … ”

“Yes, I have it.”

“You might want want to have it where you can reach it quickly. There might be an exchange of unpleasantries.”

“They aren’t workmen?”

“Goodness no. Look at their hands. … No, don’t look, you’ll attract attention. And see, they aren’t here for coffee or sandwiches.” The waitress was walking off towards the back looking miffed.

“Should we uh … say something? Maybe?” I suggested.

“Oh no.” my friend replied. “We shall watch the situation develop. … Besides, I rather fancy our invisible young friend has read the signs too.” He leaned back a little in his seat and pressed the tips of his fingers together, surveying the ‘developing situation’. In response to his warning, I had taken my pistol off safety, and had it in my hand. I could not see the two men from my position, and so waited uncomfortably in the knowledge that a fight between grown men and mere children was brewing behind my back. Then suddenly, Sherlock leapt to his feet with a cry of warning … and chaos broke loose.

The scene that followed was of such a singular nature, and was so outré a sight, that I hesitate to describe it. My first thought was that there had been an explosion, for in the moment it took me to jump up and turn round, there was a succession of loud noises of an unfamiliar nature, accompanied by much crashing and flashes of light. But the scene which met my eyes was one of near comedic nonsensicalism. From what Sherlock had told me, I should have expected it, but nevertheless, the sight of a hand and wrist hovering in mid-air all by themselves took me by surprise. And so too did their weapons. For a fraction of a second I thought that they had none, and wondered why they were grasping small drumsticks, before I realized that those  _were_ their weapons.

With a shout, I sent a bullet into the table beside the not-workmen to get their attention before any of them had time to fire again. For a moment the two teens and the remaining man (the other had slumped over on the bench) stopped and looked at us with what seemed to be astonishment. The bodiless hand paused in mid-air.

“I don’t know what your problem is.” I said. “But you  _don’t_  have to go around smashing up shops and zapping passer-bys! Put the drumsticks down!”

“I recommend that you  _don’t_  make him fire again.” Sherlock said coolly. “The first was a warning shot. The second won’t be. And I’ve never seen him miss.”

There was a moment’s pause in which the astonishment on all three of the faces was replaced by an ugly sneer on the not-workman’s face and horror on the girl’s face. Then the not-workman began to laugh, a nasty laugh which chilled my stomach.

Certain that this was the prelude to something not at all friendly, I began to threaten.

“Point that drumstick at  _me_ ,” I blustered, “and …”

And then he pointed it at me. Then, as far as I could make out, everyone – besides Sherlock and the unconscious not-workman – fired at once.

For a moment I could make no sense of it. My own bullet whizzed right back past me and took out a light-panel. The not-workman fell backwards with a horrible shriek, in spite of the fact that my bullet couldn’t possibly have hit him. There was more flashing, a window broke, and the waitress slid to the ground.

Then all was quiet, and Sherlock Holmes, the two teens, the bodiless hand, and I stood there amidst the wreckage of the café.

“Well. … That. Was. Interesting.” said Sherlock.

I turned to the teenagers: “You all right, kids?”


	2. The Hidden Mansion in London's Heart

* * *

 

It was in a strangely uncomfortable fashion that the young lady replied to my question; a pause, a nervous glance from my face to that of my friend, and a quiet: “Yes, they didn’t hit us.”

I wondered what it was that made her so nervous – surely she couldn’t suppose that she and her friends were in any danger from Sherlock Holmes and I. But only I nodded in response, and started towards the waitress, who lay in an undignified heap by the door where she had fallen.

“She’s not hurt.” said the girl, whose voice was clear and precise, but gentle.

Having not the faintest idea what they had used to knock her out however, I bent down to examine her anyway. True to the girl’s word, she could have been sleeping.

Behind me, Sherlock was addressing her: “I appreciate your attempt to shield us, young lady.” he said. “But you _should_ have realized that your shield would work both ways and John’s own ricocheting bullet would be more likely to do him long term injury than most ‘spells’ this unpleasant gentleman would be likely to cast.”

“Wait! But you’re a muggle!” exclaimed the red-head. “How do you …”

“Ah, you see, I have been devoting some attention to your secret society of late. Your invisible world is indeed difficult to see, but, truth be told, not _quite_ invisible; any more than, _you_ ,” here he looked towards the invisible owner of the floating hand “my alert young fellow, are.”

The girl’s face suddenly changed, the nervousness was superseded by a look of excitement.

“You – you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” she said. “I thought you looked like the photographs but I wasn’t sure!”

“You have the advantage of me, Ma’am. That is indeed my name, but I do not know yours.”

With a delighted smile she held out a slim white hand. “I’m Hermione Granger.” she said. “It’s such an honour to meet you, Sir. And you must be his friend Dr. Watson? I …”

“ _Hermione_ ,” said the red-head, looking confused and a bit worried, “what ...”

“Hermione, who are they?” asked the invisible boy.

“Am I the only one who ever reads _anything_ in the muggle news?” she asked in a tone of ancient disbelief.

“Yup.” said the red-head.

“I only read the muggle news to see if there’s something big going on when I can’t talk to wizards.” said the invisible one.

She sighed and rolled her eyes, and I seemed to glimpse years of such interchanges behind the gestures. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes is _only_ the greatest criminal detective of our age!” she explained, a bit shortly. “He’s not a wizard but I would have thought you would at least have _heard_ of him.”

“Well, how does he know about us?!” asked the red-head.

“I would suppose,” she said with some asperity, “that it probably has _something_ to do with the fact he’s a great criminal detective now when there’s so many …” She broke off.

“I have been looking into this little noticed segment of our island’s population since the unfortunate murder of Ms. Amelia Bones.” said Sherlock. “ And I know something of your organization and customs. For instance, I am aware that your next intended step is to cover your tracks by erasing the recent memories of myself and Dr. Watson. I don’t recommend you that try that, Miss Granger.”

I now saw that _this_ was what had made her uncomfortable; she had been trying to figure out how to go about erasing our memories. I could see from her reaction to Sherlock’s comment that she had not expected him to know this, and was further embarrassed by his knowledge.

“Why not?” she asked finally.

“Firstly, it would be ineffective. You could not remove my knowledge of your people through mere destruction of my short term memory. You would have to go _much_ farther back, which would not only be disastrous for my overall mind, but, on account of my profession, would also seriously compromise the outcome of several trials now headed for the courtroom. Your behaviour would suggest that you are too conscientious a young lady to effect such a compromise. Secondly, we are armed. And not about to let you just _take_ our memories.” (Actually, only _I_ was armed, and the nudge he gave me suggested that he thought my current demeanour insufficiently formidable.) “Thirdly, I’ve already contacted my brother in the muggle government on the situation. He is naturally discreet, and under my management the information about this evening’s events can be kept under control. But if I suddenly forget all about the matter you have just opened not a loophole, but a floodgate of investigation into your secret society. Fourthly, I believe that we desire the same goal at the moment, and our mutual cooperation would be greatly advantageous to both parties.”

The invisible boy took off his hood. I must have been unconsciously expecting a fantastic figure to be hidden beneath the remarkable garment, for I was surprised to see the face of a very ordinary looking boy emerge; light freckled skin, dark messy hair, features that had not lost their childishness yet, big vivid green eyes partially obscured with a pair of large, round glasses – the only remarkable thing about his appearance was a jagged scar, cutting straight down the centre of his forehead. He looked at Sherlock Holmes and me with open suspicion. I was too absorbed in wondering what terrible misfortune had given him that mark to feel much annoyance.

“What goal?” he asked.

“The destruction of the terrorist organization within the ranks of your secret society and the removal from power of its murderous leader, Mr. Riddle.” replied my friend.

At these words, the three children were flung into a something of a flurry. They wound up scampering off to the far side of the room for a whispered consultation of some kind. I noticed that they still kept their eyes on us, and did not put their weapons down.

In spite of these not entirely friendly precautions, Sherlock seemed extremely pleased by the proceedings, and he chuckled and rubbed his hands with together great satisfaction.

“Sherlock, what exactly are we doing?” I asked.

“This is it, John! This is _precisely_ what I needed. I’ve been trying to figure this society’s workings primarily from the outside. But these children, _they_ are inside! … By the way, a word of warning – their choices of words are extremely odd.”

“Yes, I noticed. They _really_ call themselves wizards?”

“Yes, but don’t allow that to make you think that the matter isn’t a very serious one indeed.”

“But are you sure you can trust them? They wanted to knock us out and take our memories. And what if they actually are with Riddle? Aren’t you taking quite a chance?”

“They’re not with Riddle. And of course they wanted to knock us out and take our memories, that’s what wizards _do_ when muggles stumble into their secrets. And of course I’m taking a chance. It’s too _excellent_ a one to pass up! … You don’t have to stay though, if you’d rather not. They’d obviously want to erase your memory of the evening before you leave.” He hesitated. “It seems to be a perfectly safe procedure, medically speaking, assuming you don’t _mind_ someone stealing things out of your head …”

“No, of course I’m not leaving.”

He smiled. “I knew you weren’t. … If you are coming, I wouldn’t count on getting home tonight. Better let Mary know. In the interests of diplomacy, make no mention of the wizards at the moment. Just tell her that the Bones and Burbage cases have turned out to be linked, and we’re following a scent while it’s still warm.”

As I had been accustomed to being away overnight from time to time while working with Sherlock Holmes on his cases, this would not come as a great surprise to my wife; though I knew she would be after a more thorough explanation when I got back. She was on a late shift that night and by the time I had gotten through to her at work, the trio had returned.

From their manner, it looked as though Miss Granger had just won an argument. She said that they couldn’t discuss the matter here and asked Mr. Holmes if he could return with them to a hiding place where they could speak freely, to which Sherlock readily agreed. And she asked me if I was going to accompany them. The two boys required further persuasion (or rather brow beating) from the her before assenting to even the temporary accompaniment of a second ‘muggle’. But between Sherlock’s insistence that he would require my help, and Miss Granger’s insistence that they could not afford to pass up _his_ , they agreed, if reluctantly. I more than half suspected it was only to avoid staying _here_ any longer. It occurred to me that in spite of their apparent acquiescence, memory wipes had not been ruled out yet.

They set things in order before we left. Their unassuming little ‘wands’ were more than weapons. They were also tools of the most extraordinary nature. I watched in amazement as the shattered glass flew back up into the empty panes, sealing back together without a seam, and as the cracked tables smoothed back over, the Formica melding till it looked as though it had never been broken. Having followed Sherlock Holmes in his cases for many years, I was no stranger to the remarkable, even to the marvellous. Yet I could scarcely bring myself to credit the evidence of my eyes. And I thought to myself that whatever technology the children were using to accomplish this, it was greatly under utilized. When, in but a few minutes, the café stood as it had been before any of us entered, save for the sleeping waitress and the slumped over gangsters, I found myself greatly wishing that _I_ knew how to do this.

The two gangsters were propped back up in their booth, the waitress set in a chair in the back, and all three were subjected to the memory wipe which Sherlock and I had so far avoided. Sherlock had offered to ask Mycroft to have the gangsters arrested on charge of assault and hold them secretly until the matter of Riddle was handled. The three children refused this, apparently thinking that handing ‘wizards’ over to ‘muggles’ was letting the secret get out too far. Sherlock did not argue the matter, but I saw him texting away while the memory wipe was being done, and I suspected that someone was going to show up soon anyway. After the children had finished with them Sherlock went over and quietly pocketed their weapons.

Less than a quarter of an hour had passed since the fight when the five of us slipped out through the café’s back door and went hurrying along the dark streets. Had it been just Sherlock and I, we would have taken a cab, but for all five of us to travel by cab we would have had to split up. And none of us wanted to do this (I do believe that every one of us had a different set of reasons). Had it just been the three children, they would have teleported, but it appeared that they were uncertain about teleporting with passengers. I wasn’t sorry for that, since I felt that I should like to know a bit more about this ‘apparating’, as they called it, before I tried it out.

 

On foot the journey took some time, but it was not yet midnight when Miss Granger turned to us and said that she thought it would be better if our eyes were closed, and asked us to finish the journey being led by them. I rather feared a trap of some kind, in spite of the difficulty I felt in ascribing any kind of ill motives to the earnest, innocent looking young lady. But Sherlock seemed to have no such worries; he immediately took the hand she held out to him and shut his eyes. So I took the red-head’s hand, and was led forward in the dark.

We crossed an empty road, and from the sound and the movement of the air, entered an open square. Whether because of the lateness of the night, or the little-frequented nature of the place, I could discern no sound or vibration suggesting that there was anyone else nearby. We crossed a strip of lawn, went up a paved walk and climbed a short flight of steps. I heard the rattle of a lock and the creaking of a large, heavy door, and I smelled the cold, musty air drifting from the recess beyond. I now felt even more disinclined to comply with this arrangement, and hesitated on the threshold when the boy would have gone in. But hearing Sherlock’s voice ahead of me, already inside the cold cavernous place beyond the door (strangely hushed it seemed), I followed them inside.

At a soft word from Miss Granger, I opened my eyes and found myself in a dark hallway. The scents of dust and mildew filled my nostrils. The heavy door slammed closed behind me, and I felt as if a trap had just sprung closed. A row of lamps spluttered into wavering light along the wall, revealing more of the dreary hall before us, and giving the place, it seemed to me, an even more unpleasant, repelling aspect than the cavern-like darkness of before had.

By the time we found ourselves upstairs in a dreary, ancient parlour, covered with dust, and smelling of untold years of quiet decay, my view of the situation had shifted from criminal investigation to haunted house ride. Even if it hadn’t been for the booby-traps that were sprung upon us as we went down the hallway (screaming pictures, creepy recorded voices, and a remarkable fake ghost) my initial reaction would still have increased instead of being dissipated as we proceeded into the house. Stagnant air, rotting tapestries, dark doorways that I felt no inclination to pass. A sense of dead grandeur hung over it all. It must once have been impressive. I could not imagine that it ever could have been beautiful. One felt that the darkness was not the ordinary darkness that comes to all houses at night, but a more solid, permanent thing – like the darkness far underground. We learned that this ancient mansion was in fact legally owned by the dark-haired boy, who had recently inherited it from his godfather, one Sirius Black. A glance at his face as he said this intimated that he liked the place – if possible – even less than I did. But the three children thought it possible that we would not be pursued here. Sherlock knit his brows and looked unconvinced. I gathered that the booby-traps downstairs had _entirely_ failed to impress him.

“Now, Mr. Holmes” said Miss Granger as we settled onto the dusty sofas and armchairs, “you’ve been investigating some of Voldemort’s recent crimes?”

“That I can remember, I have never heard the name ‘Voldemort’ before. ‘Flight from death’? Odd name. But if by ‘Voldemort’ you mean the leader of the terrorist group, the son of Thomas Riddle, and the man who murdered Amelia Bones, then yes, I have been.”

“Then you understand it’s not simply a matter of him being a plain murderer you could just arrest?”

“From my knowledge of the situation, he could be described as crime-boss, terrorist-organizer, gangster, race-supremacist, warlord, mad-scientist, and would-be-dictator. I know he has a large organization of fighters, a range of technologies which I am unfamiliar with, acts mostly under the radar, and has – tonight – carried out an act of open warfare, possibly a coup of sorts, here in London. If the matter could be dealt with as simply as telling Scotland Yard to arrest him and laying out my evidence before a jury, then the whole matter would have been dealt with long ago. I have spent months trying to put the puzzle pieces of your hidden world together, the innocent ones as well as the criminal ones. And I do not know where he currently is, where his base of operations is, how best to apprehend him, what would remain of his dangerous organization with him gone, or whether imprisonment in the custody of the ordinary British police would be anything like sufficient to stop him. I am missing many puzzle pieces yet.” And he looked keenly at her over the tips of his fingers.

“Well,” she said, “we don’t know _all_ of those things either. And handing him over to the Muggle police would be a dreadful idea! He _must_ be handled by wizards...”

“From what I understand of his capabilities, I must agree with you.”

“And yes,” she continued, “I suppose it was a coup. His forces attacked the ministry of magic just an hour ago.”

“And defeated the government forces.”

“They did.” She was looking at the floor.

“Riddle’s gang is in definite possession of the government headquarters then?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes, we have a friend who only just got out alive. The minister of magic was killed and the ministry itself is fallen.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “To what extent do you expect this will cripple the legitimate law-enforcement arm of your society?”

The three children looked at each other.

Sherlock leaned forward. “The battle in London cannot have wiped out the entirety of your government’s organization. What elements are left? To whom does the responsibility of apprehending the criminal fall?”

“Well,” said Hermione, “remember, we’re not talking about an ordinary Muggle style arrest.”

“I use the term ‘apprehend’ in a broad fashion.”

“We’re talking another battle, Mr. Holmes.” she said, her white face very earnest. “I don't know what our forces look like at the moment; I don't think anyone knows that tonight. Voldemort will have placed many of the important survivors under … a form of enchantment. I don’t know who and what’s left free. But we can’t try to attack him yet anyway. He has … protections, of a sort. You wouldn’t understand. And before we can directly engage him we _must_ …”

“Hermione!” exclaimed the dark-haired boy. He was looking at her in apparent shock.

Without appearing to have noticed, my friend continued the girl’s sentence.

“Before we engage him we must remove these ‘protections’.”

“Yes.” she said.

Sherlock nodded, as though he understood her quite well.

“Do you mean ‘we’ as a generalization or as a specific?” he asked in businesslike tones.

She looked uncertainly towards her friends.

“Ah.” said Sherlock. “You _do_ mean _we_. … A bit _young_ to be taking on the leader of an opposing force by yourselves, aren’t you?”

The dark-haired boy glanced side-ways at my friend and spoke in an under-tone to the girl.

“Hermione, how much are you planning on telling him? You’ve already gone too far! We can’t tell him about …”

“Why?” said Sherlock. “You are seeking a way to stop Riddle. So am I. I can be of assistance to you.”

The dark-haired boy went on: “ _Hermione,_ I promised Dumbledore I wouldn’t tell anyone but you and Ron. We can’t just tell some muggle because you’ve read about him in the papers! Better we muddle on by ourselves than let word get out to Voldemort.” He turned squarely to face Sherlock. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes. But I don’t think I can tell you.”

And I could see that he really was sorry. He seemed to think he was resisting a temptation. But it was infuriating, to have a mere boy say he knew a way to destroy the crime-lord, but was neither sure how to go about it nor would accept help.

“I appreciate the offer,” he continued, “but I really can’t accept. And, no offence, but we’re going to have to obliviate you. It won’t hurt.”

“Oh, I’ve been obliviated.” said Sherlock casually. “But – Dumbledore gave a teenager information on how to destroy a terrorist leader and forbade him to tell any adults?”

“We’re all of age!” said the red-head (who was apparently Ron). “I’ve been seventeen for months!”

“But you’re still young … few … uncertain. People are dying; both Muggles and Wizards. We've just been discussing how this has gone beyond mere criminal activity into actual warfare. You understand the situation perfectly well. You ran into hiding this very evening to avoid being captured by the enemy forces in control of the ministry. If you have information which will help bring Riddle to justice, you have to act now. If you aren’t sure how to proceed then you are duty bound to get assistance. … _Let me assist._ If it is the secrecy of your community that worries you – I’m not interested in a big exposure. I’m interested in stopping the murders, stopping the terrorism, and restoring order both in your nation and in mine. Your secret nation may be your business. But when it starts breaking English laws and attacking ordinary English citizens, it becomes _my_ business. And about secrets getting to Riddle’s ear – I can keep them better you have yourself. If you weren’t going to accept my help in your secret mission against Riddle, Mr. Potter, you should never have told me that you had one. But you have been telling me this whole time.”

For a minute there was quiet. Then Miss Granger spoke.

“Harry, Dumbledore didn’t foresee this! He wanted you to keep the number of people small so the secret wouldn’t get out! This is just two more. People come from all over Europe to ask Mr. Holmes’s assistance! If you want only three then you’d do better to obliviate me and take him instead!”

Harry seemed to be teetering. He leaned over and whispered something in her ear.

“Is his name written on his clothing?” I asked Sherlock quietly.

“Inside of his collar. H.J. Potter. I saw it when he bent over and put his head in his hands. He must have worn those robes at school.”

“Well, not one hundred percent!” exclaimed Miss Granger, responding to whatever Harry had been saying. “But I can’t imagine any good reason why not!” Then, with a sigh, she whispered something back. There was a long moment while Harry thought her words over.

“All right.” he finally said.

“Wait,” said Ron, “we’re letting a muggle in?”

“Two muggles.” said Sherlock, looking at me. “Anything that you can say to me, you can say also to Dr. Watson. You still have no objection to being involved in so outrageous and out-of-order an affair as a civil war among the nation’s wizards, have you, John?”

“No.” I said, greatly intrigued. “And of course I would keep secret anything revealed in confidence. Although, I’m not sure I can be of much help in an affair of that sort.”

“I assure you, you can be.” said Sherlock. “Yes, two muggles.”

To my surprise, Harry J. Potter made no objection to this. He nodded, took a breath, and despite the doubt that still haunted his eyes, he took the plunge.

“We don’t really have a plan. But before Voldemort can be fought there’s … things that must be done. If we, or any other wizards, try to take him, we have to assume that it’s a fight to the death. The team sent to ‘arrest’ him is either going to kill him or be killed by him. And that can’t happen right now. I mean … _him_ being killed can’t.”

“What things must be done?” asked Sherlock.

“It’s difficult to explain to a Muggle …”

“Well,” I interjected, “remember he has been researching you for nearly a year.”

“What must be done?” Sherlock repeated.

“Before the first time he tried to seize power, he set up some … sort of safeguards … to prevent him being killed.”

“What do you mean safeguards?”

“Powerful magic objects …” said Harry slowly. To my surprise, Sherlock made no comment on the boy’s use of vocabulary. He half caught my eye with a subtly amused expression, as if he found their terminology entertaining and was inviting me to join the joke, but had no intention of challenging the terminology of these ‘wizards’. He was clearly more interested what to do about it than what they called it.

“Dark magic.” Harry continued. “They’re called horcruxes. He broke off pieces of his soul and attached them to certain objects” (Sherlock’s brows contracted) “protected with powerful spells. When he should have been killed, sixteen years ago, he wasn’t. He came back.”

“Came back?”

“He sort of … regenerated.”

“Regenerated?” I said. “Like Doctor Who?”

Everyone in the room (including Sherlock) looked questioningly at me.

“Doctor _who?_ ” asked Ron.

“Ah, no one. No one. Go on.”


	3. Statement of the Case

 

* * *

 

“Voldemort should have died.” Harry Potter explained. “He murdered my mum and dad, and then tried to kill me. But my mother’s last enchantment protected me, and his curse rebounded and hit him instead. It should have killed him, but it didn’t. He disappeared for thirteen years, and a little over three years ago he regenerated.”

“What do you mean he ‘regenerated’? Don’t you just mean he _returned?_ ” asked Sherlock.

“No. He … regenerated. I was there. I saw it.” Marks of old horrors were written on the boy’s face as he said this, and with a sickened feeling, I wondered what place a boy of fourteen could have had there.

“What were you doing there?” asked Sherlock, and I knew from his tone that he was not insensible to this either.

It was Miss Granger who answered.

“He was captured.” she said. “Because of his failure to kill Harry, Harry became a symbol of resistance and Voldemort meant to begin his second bid for power with killing him in front of his followers. … But he was overconfident. Harry fought him and got away.”

“Ah.” said Sherlock. “That is why you expected to be targeted tonight.”

“He’s been hunting Harry for years.” said Hermione. “Our friend who escaped the ministry tonight sent us warning that they were coming.”

“I see. Please continue.”

“Wait.” I said. “So he, Voldemort, has sort of a – fake body?”

The three children looked as though they weren’t sure how to answer that question. It was Sherlock who answered me.

“Oh, it’s _real_.” he said. “Flesh and blood … DNA … But if it is unnaturally created, like cells designed and grown in labs, that would help to explain … a great deal.” He flashed his gaze back to Harry. “You are _certain_ of this?”

“Completely.” said Harry.

“What state was he in before he made this artificially regenerated form?”

The answer that Harry gave consisted of anecdotes which did not seem to me to work out into a conclusive or even consistent explanation. Ghost or goblin, or ruined man – or all of them together? I couldn’t _believe_ that Sherlock seemed to be swallowing it. But perhaps, I thought, he’s humouring Harry, or maybe he sees what’s really going on _through_ Harry’s explanation, or he’s understanding what Harry is saying better than I and it matches so well with information he already knows that he’s willing to take it as a working – if improbable – hypothesis until he can find a better. I, in any case, was utterly confounded.

“So, it was these safeguards which enabled him to regenerate?” said Sherlock finally, apparently deciding that _that_ was the really important point – the how of the matter was academic.

“Yes.” Harry replied definitively.

“Then if his exact location was known at this moment, and an aerial missile strike was called down which incinerated the entire vicinity … that would not get rid of him?”

“The equivalent of that’s already happened to him once.” said Harry. (Harry has never seen a missile strike, I thought.) “If it was so simple as that, we wouldn’t be having this war now. The horcruxes must be destroyed first.”

“I see.” said Sherlock. “Well, I’d prefer not to rule out the missile strike anyway, just yet. But – your objective is to hunt down and destroy all of these objects, so that when the legitimate wizarding forces confront Riddle, he is not invulnerable?”

“Exactly.” Harry nodded.

Sherlock nodded. “Very well. What do we know about these ‘horcruxes’? How many? What do they look like? What kind of places are they likely to be found in? Please be as specific as possible.”

“Dumbledore – Albus Dumbledore was the headmaster of Hogwarts, the Wizarding school – found out Voldemort was going for a seven part soul; six horcruxes, plus himself. We’ve already destroyed two.”

“Excellent. How and when?”

“I destroyed the first five years ago, when Lucius Malfoy – a Death Eater, one of Voldemort’s closest followers – used it to release Slytherin’s monster.”

“Details, please.”

“It was Tom Riddle’s diary.”

“Riddle’s father Thomas, or Riddle himself?”

“Riddle’s … a book, nothing written in it, but if you wrote in it, it wrote back to you. It, or the bit of Voldemort in it, possessed Ron’s little sister Ginny, and used her to open the chamber of secrets beneath Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry, in order to release the basilisk.”

“Basilisk? Isn’t that a kind of mythical snake?” I asked. “Killed with its glance?”

“Well this one was real.” said Harry. “Dumbledore’s phoenix helped me to kill it.”

“A _phoenix_ helped you to kill a basilisk? … All right. Okay.”

“So the _horcrux_ released the basilisk on your school?” asked Sherlock in clarification.

“That’s what Voldemort designed it to do.” Harry said.

“You destroyed it. How?”

“The basilisk left a poisoned fang in my arm – I stabbed the horcrux with it.”

“Basilisk venom destroys horcruxes?”

“Basilisk venom is one of the few things that actually does. Merely breaking the object doesn’t actually destroy the horcrux.”

“If the venom is so potent, then why didn’t it destroy you?”

“Fawkes.” said Harry. “The phoenix. His tears healed me.”

“How does that work?” asked Sherlock.

“Well,” I interjected, “as long as we’re talking about myths – Rapunzel’s tears could completely regrow whole eyes. … Uh, Harry, are you being quite serious?”

“Harry’s telling the truth.” declared Miss Granger. “He went down into the chamber of secrets, slew the basilisk with the sword of Gryffindor, destroyed the horcrux, and rescued Ron’s sister.” Harry had spoken with what almost seemed embarrassment. But Miss Granger’s voice had taken on a tone of admiring pride, and she held her head higher as she spoke. She then seemed to notice that Ron was giving her puppy-eyes, and added: “Ron was there too – it wasn’t his fault the roof caved in and Harry had to go on alone.”

“So.” said Sherlock. “The first was a diary. It was left with Riddle’s henchman Lucius Malfoy. It actively did pre-programmed things. And it was destroyed by basilisk venom?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to the basilisk?”

“Uh … it’s still down there, I guess … or its skeleton is.”

“Thank-you. Continue.”

“Dumbledore destroyed the second. It was the ring of the house of Gaunt.”

“That would be his mother’s family, correct?”

“Yes, the Gaunts were descended from Salazar Slytherin … a famous wizard and one of the four founders of Hogwarts School. Dumbledore found it in the ruins of the Gaunts’ cottage.”

“Ah.” said Sherlock. “How did he destroy this one?”

“I don’t know. … I should have asked him, but, I didn’t think of it until … ” Harry trailed off.

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“Well, that was thoughtless of him.”

A momentary flash of indignation crossed Harry’s face, as if he took this criticism of his late teacher ill. But he made no retort.

“So,” said Sherlock, “we have a diary, left with a follower, and a ring, hidden in his Wizarding family’s house?”

“Yes.” said Harry.

“Do we know anything about the rest?”

“Dumbledore thought he knew what three of the remaining were – he spent years trying to put together a picture – to trace Voldemort’s footsteps over the years – and he had a guess at the fourth. Riddle has a thing for important Wizarding artefacts, especially belonging to the four founders of Hogwarts. That’s Godric Gryffindor, Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin. So, Dumbledore said he thought the remaining horcruxes are the locket of Salazar Slytherin, the cup of Helga Hufflepuff, Voldemort’s snake Nagini, and something else probably belonging to Gryffindor or Ravenclaw.”

“His _python_ is a horcux?”

“You know about Nagini?”

“I could hardly miss it, though I didn’t know its name until now. So the kind of objects which can be made into horcuxes is very broad? Both animate and inanimate – just about any type of substance? We have here paper, metal, and living flesh.”

“I guess.”

“Well, snakes are easy enough to kill. And it’s always going about with him, so finding that one shouldn’t be much too of a problem, we’ll have to find Riddle anyway. Any ideas on the other three?”

“Dumbledore actually found where Voldemort originally hid the locket.”

“It had been moved?”

“Yes. … Someone had been there before us.”

“Riddle shifting it? Or someone else trying to destroy it?”

“He left a note, for … Riddle, saying he planned on destroying it.”

“Perhaps he did, then.”

“Yes, we thought of that, but we’ll have to find it to be sure.”

“Do you happen to have that note?”

“Yes, I have.” said Harry. He pulled from his robes a small brown pouch which had been hanging around his neck and drew out a large golden locket.

Sherlock took it and turned it over and over in his hands; looking at the gold, the smooth unmarked surface, the finely worked chain. Finally he opened it – examining the hinge as he did so, took out the little square of paper within, and carefully unfolded it.

“Exceedingly high quality parchment.” he commented. “Either the thief was well-to-do to have this on hand or he chose expensive paper particularly for the purpose. Most likely the former, since it is not generally poor men who use golden lockets to send notes in. Obviously written during Riddle’s _previous_ attempt to seize power.”

I got up and walked behind Sherlock’s chair to look over his shoulder. On thick, yellowed paper, written in small but bold printing, I read the following message:

“ _To the Dark Lord,_

_I know I will be dead long before you read this_

_but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret._

_I have stolen the real horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can._

_I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,_

_you will be mortal once more._

_R.A.B”_

“He expected to die?” I said. “Was he planning on committing suicide?”

“Perhaps, but he was clearly committing treason against a very hard master. He may have expected to be killed before Riddle checked his hiding place. … ‘I face death’, that doesn’t sound like he’s going to take his own life … but it also makes it sound more inevitable and immediate a threat than being eventually hunted down for treachery. But then there is the intending to destroy it ‘as soon as I can’ which sounds as though he’s going to be living for a while. … There are clearly a number of other factors here.”

“You say he was Riddle’s servant?” I said.

“Obviously. Follower anyway, ex-follower. The writing suggests a familiarity between them, and he clearly expects Riddle to recognize his initials as a matter of course. Can’t be a family member. Riddle didn’t have any near family left alive after the age of sixteen, besides perhaps an uncle – but local sources say he disappeared from _muggle_ view at least at about the same time that the Riddles died. And _his_ initials were M.G. Also the greeting. “The Dark Lord” That’s very formal, as if he is used to speaking _up_ to him, like a henchman. I doubt that ordinary wizards are in the habit of referring to him by any such preposterous title as ‘the Dark Lord’.”

“No they’re not.” supplied Harry.

Sherlock nodded. “So this note was written by one of his followers, who turned against him and tried to help bring him down, apparently at the expense of his own life.”

“His?” said Miss Granger.

“This is a man’s writing, a young man’s, of a decisive and probably arrogant personality. Principled to some extent – he had the moral courage to change his allegiance when it was not clearly personally advantageous to him. Proud, since he wanted it known. But unwise, since it took actually working under Riddle to show him what _bad news_ he was. Riddle is a charismatic person, is he not?”

“Yes, he is … _very_. It’s part of what makes him so dangerous.” said Harry.

“Well, this R.A.B.” I said. “You don’t know who he is?

“No.” said Harry.

“I’ve looked up all the well known witches and wizards with those initials.” Miss Granger said. “And I couldn’t find anything to connect them to Voldemort.”

“Well, he mightn’t be all that well known.” I suggested. “Shouldn’t we go through all the well-to-do B families in your society that we can find information on and see if any men in that age category had names beginning in R?”

“Yes.” said Sherlock. “It should have been the first step taken. And since we’re sitting in the Blacks’ parlour we can start with the Blacks. Your said your godfather’s name began with an S, so …”

“And Sirius was never a Death Eater!” said Harry, suddenly fierce.

“Were any of his family?” asked Sherlock, totally unphased. “Death Eater connections or the possibility of such connections, name beginning with R, would have been a young man about twenty years ago…”

Harry’s face fell.

“What is it?!” cried Ron and Miss Granger together.

“Regulus.” said Harry. “Sirius’ younger brother … Sirius told me he joined the Death Eaters when he was really young, got cold feet, and disappeared not long before Voldemort’s first downfall!”

“R.A.B!” screamed Miss Granger. “Regulus Black! What was his middle name, Harry?”

“I don’t know. But it fits!”

Sherlock was not impressed – they’d had that locket and note since June. But the three children were far too excited to bother about his pointed comments. They scurried about, checking out Regulus’s bedroom (where we learned his middle name was Arcturus) and other hiding places around the house. Sherlock and I helped in the search, but found nothing, or at least no lockets. Half an hour passed before Miss Granger had an epiphany and remembered a large golden locket engraved with an S which they had thrown out two years ago while trying to clean the place up a bit. The three were appalled by this news, but Sherlock didn’t seem to think that it was so very dreadful. He was making inquiries of them about Wizarding methods of garbage disposal when Harry had another thought.

I would have expected that upon discovering a non-human creature who possessed humanoid form and the power of speech, one’s first response would naturally be curious scepticism, and then, if sufficient evidence was presented to overcome this, delighted fascination. But the arrival of the creature which Harry called into the kitchen left little room for for either sensation.

It came quickly, I didn’t see from where; Harry called ‘Creature!’, there was a sharp crack, and when I turned around to see what had fallen, a strange creature was standing there. My instant response of mingled revulsion and pity at the sight of this hideous little mockery of the human form quickly increased to something very like horror. The contempt and hatred of Harry it expressed, even as it addressed him as ‘Master’ surprised and disturbed me. Harry had impressed me as being a quite decent young fellow; hardly likely to inspire such hatred in a subordinate. But then, he was not the sole object of its hatred. Room was left for Ron and Hermione Granger in its extreme displeasure; the titles of address it gave to them were the peculiar epithets ‘blood traitor’ and ‘mudblood’ – which I recognized as favourite catchwords of the screaming painting in the hall. It muttered them bitterly under its breath with vicious inflection and angry glares. Then it noticed Sherlock and I.

The paroxysm of fury and horror at the presence of _‘filthy muggles!’_ in his _‘mistress’ house’_ into which it erupted was of so violent a nature that Sherlock and I thought it politic to excuse ourselves from the room. This was to the evident relief of Harry, who was frantically trying to make him stop and apologize to us at the same time. Miss Granger, who looked at it with sadly sympathetic eyes, came with us, out into the hall on the other side of the kitchen door.

The gentle girl, to whose kind, upright nature the situation was utterly abhorrent, related to us that this creature (it appears it had no other name) had long been bound to the service of the house of Black, in a position which she considered no better than slavery. There was a firmness about her lip and an indignant flaring in her nostrils as she said this which were the first signs I had seen from her that she might be a very formidable person if prompted. When Sirius died the legal ownership of the house had passed to Harry, and so had ‘Creature’. Harry had not wanted him. He did not desire a servant, and to make matters worse, Creature had conspired with a Death Eater cousin in the affair which cost Sirius his life. But Dumbledore had bade Harry keep him, legally bound to obey his commands, for the time being at least; for Creature knew too many secrets. If he were permitted to go where he wanted and do as he wished, he would undoubtedly go at once to that cousin, one Bellatrix Lestrange, one of Riddle’s foremost lieutenants and Sirius’ killer, a full-blown psychopath whose brutal deeds were infamous in the Wizarding world, and offer her his service and his knowledge. For she was the nearest in the Blacks’ line. I saw now that it was not only dislike of the horrible house which made Harry hate his inheritance – he might well consider it a curse.

Once the ‘muggles’ and the ‘mudblood’ were out of his immediate presence (‘mudblood’, we learned, was a racist slur for a wizard whose parents were muggles) Creature was able to calm down enough to answer Harry’s questions about the locket.

I need not here go deeply into the sad story that the creature told. Sherlock, Miss Granger, and I heard almost all of it from just beyond the door. Before Creature was half finished, tears were streaming down Miss Granger’s face. Even Sherlock’s countenance had assumed a grimmer aspect. In that moment I conceived a loathing of Tom Riddle which knowledge of his merely expedient political violence had not produced, and which time has not effaced.

But I see no reason to take up space and darken my tale by repeating the poor little person’s story in full. Therefore, passing over some hideous anecdotes of wanton cruelty not strictly relevant to the investigation, let it suffice to say that many years ago Creature had gone with his beloved, long-dead Master Regulus as guide to the cave where the horcrux had been hidden. Regulus Arcturus Black had never come out again. He had succumbed to the horcrux’s defences, and died a terrible death before his servant’s eyes. But he managed to send Creature back home again, with the horcrux, and orders to destroy it. Creature had tried, tried and tried. But he been unable to do so. His master’s, his very dear master’s, last behest was unfulfilled. The locket had sat in the house for years. Creature had carefully guarded it. He had stolen it out of the trash when it was thrown away. He had kept it hidden in his own little cubbyhole until Sirius died. Then an associate of theirs, one Mundungus Fletcher, burgled the house. Among the plate-ware and trinkets he took was Regulus’ locket.

Creature finished and sat sobbing on the floor, sobbing as if his heart would break; hatred forgotten in grief. Miss Granger had broken down and rushed back into the kitchen. She would have embraced the wretched creature, but it rebuffed her, crying ‘what would his mistress say?’. Ron stood by, looking distinctly disturbed. Harry was kneeling on the floor beside Creature, his vivid green eyes wide. It was clear that the teens had never seen this side of their unpleasant acquaintance before. Harry’s question had broken into a locked up corner of his heart, and the nasty little bundle of spite had broken down into a weeping, grieving, almost childlike creature. Harry tried to ask of him how, after what Riddle had done to him and what Regulus had done to bring Riddle down, he could then connive with Riddle’s henchmen. I don’t know if Creature even registered or understood the question. It was, as Miss Granger pointed out, not of sides or wars that he thought, but of people. He had loved Regulus and Mistress Black with single-minded blindness, what should he do but accept their prideful world-view in its wretched entirety? Why should he not do as their cousin ‘Bella’ asked of him?

It was in a changed tone that Harry again addressed Creature, when the poor fellow had recovered himself sufficiently to hear anything. He asked him in a distinctly gentle voice if he could find Fletcher. ‘ _We_ ’ said Harry ‘we need to finish Regulus’ mission’. Creature agreed without dispute and prepared to leave. But, apparently moved by some sudden impulse, Harry took out the golden locket which had held Regulus’ note and told Creature he thought Regulus would want him to have it.

Well, the calming down had to be done all over again. It was difficult to tell at first if this gift made Creature very happy or very sad, just that it made him very hysterical. But the care and almost reverence with which he stowed the little treasure away made me think it must have been at least partly positive emotion. A change had come over his attitude as well. It seemed that Harry had transformed himself in Creature’s eyes from being a base nobody – a ‘half-blood’ whom Mistress Black would despise – into an ally of Master Regulus. And it was astonishing how his viciousness had disappeared. He was downright respectful to both boys. He was tersely polite to Miss Granger. And he even consented to courteously ignore the existence of Sherlock and I. And, promising to bring back the thief, he left.

The affair left a nasty impression on my mind. It was not that I judged that the three children had done ill – I was not sure what else they _could_ have done. But a terrible situation it was all the same. Miss Granger was right. However much he had loved some of his masters, Creature was a sentient being held very much in bondage. Sherlock seemed greatly annoyed by the whole affair, and he and Miss Granger spent a great deal of the time in which Creature was recovering off in the corridor, conversing earnestly and indignantly together. I had no doubt about what.

“Right.” said Harry when we finally reassembled in the parlour. “Two are dead. Mundungus Fletcher stole the one. The other is hanging around Voldemort. That leaves just two we don’t know.”

“You said that one was a cup and the other an artefact related to one of two founders of the school.” said Sherlock. “We know something then. Could you recognize this cup if you saw it?”

“Probably.”

“Good. And the other. Do you know if any artefact which fits that description is missing?”

“No. There’s only one relic of Gryffindor really. The sword of Gryffindor. And it’s perfectly safe.”

“Well, if it is most probably from either Ravenclaw or Gryffindor and cannot be from Gryffindor, shouldn’t we be looking at Ravenclaw? … What artefacts are there belonging to Ravenclaw?”

“We’re all from the house of Gryffindor.” said Miss Granger. “We wouldn’t know.”

“Would someone from the house of Ravenclaw know better?”

“I suppose so.” said Harry.

“Then we need to talk to someone from Ravenclaw. They don’t need to know why we’re looking for it. But we can’t discover which artefact it could be until we know which ones there are. Who from Ravenclaw would you be _least_ worried about talking to right now?”

“Luna Lovegood.” said Harry instantly.

“Is she a teacher?”

“No, she’s a student. … But she’d know about artefacts, come to think about it. Her father is really into everything weird.”

I wondered what a person weird by Wizarding standards would be like.

“Where is she now?” asked Sherlock.

“At her house, not far from my place, in St. Ottery Catchpole.” said Ron.

“Do you know how to get to her house?”

“I’ve never been there. I just see her at school.”

“I’m sure we could find it though.” said Miss Granger.

“Good.” said Sherlock. “In that case we should call on the Lovegoods tomorrow. But once we know what it is we’ll still need to find out _where_ it is. Now since we know where he left four out of the six, we should be able to make reasonable estimate of where the last two are. One with a trusted lieutenant. One in the ruins of the Gaunt family home. One he keeps with him. One in a cave … was there anything special about this cave that you know, Harry? Why might he have chosen it?”

“There is a story about how he once, back when he lived in an orphanage – his mother died when he was born, you know, and his father had left when she was pregnant – he went on a holiday with the other orphans and took a bunch of younger kids off alone. Did something to them. No one knows what exactly happened, but they weren’t right afterwards. … Dumbledore thought that this was that cave.”

“I see.” said Sherlock. “One in a place important for its ancestral roots. One in a place where he hurt someone.”

“Yes.”

“One that related to his lineage. One that related to his abilities. Both pointing to his status as a formidable wizard.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock jumped up and began swiftly pacing the room.

“What other places might he consider important to his Wizarding status? How about the Wizarding school? Might he have considered that important?”

“Well, the school was where he went when he first learned that he was a wizard. Dumbledore thinks it meant more to him than any person ever has.”

“Hogwarts school then. Put that down as a highly probable place. It would relate both to his lineage and his ability, making it doubly important.”

“How could he hide it at Hogwarts?” said Miss Granger.

“Yeah, he’d have to get in for starters.” said Ron. “And he hasn’t been there since … when was You-know-who at Hogwarts last, Harry?”

“When he tried to get Dumbledore to hire him as the defence against the dark arts professor.”

“When was _that_?” asked Sherlock.

“Ah … before he openly started trying to take over – he wasn’t actually considered a criminal at that point, but after he’d started the Death Eaters.”

“He sought a teaching position?” said Sherlock. “On the eve of trying to take over the country?”

“Dumbledore doesn’t think he really wanted the job. He thinks that he just wanted to get in the school.”

Sherlock swung both fists in the air in a gesture of delight.

“Just wanted to get in! He hid a horcrux there that night, it’s almost a certainty!”

“Well … Dumbledore thought he was looking for something to turn _into_ a horcrux.”

“Maybe he was. Could have done both. … Did he ever commit a serious crime in Hogwarts?”

“Yes, he murdered a muggle-born student, he set the basilisk on her in the girl’s bathroom. I think that was probably the murder he used to turn the diary into a horcrux.”

“Wait,” I said, “what do you mean?”

“Well … a horcux is a broken off piece of somebody’s soul, right?” said Harry uncomfortably.

“ … Okay?”

“In order to ruin your soul like that you’ve got do do really terrible things … like murdering people.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that, so I said nothing.

“Was it his first murder?” asked Sherlock matter-of-factly.

Harry looked thoughtful.

“I don’t know. I _think_ he murdered both her and his father and grandparents in his sixth year… but you won’t know about that …”

“Yes I do. … Impossible murder. The squire, his wife, and their grown son all dead. Found in their dinner clothes the next morning; not a mark on them. No cause of death ever determined. No one ever found guilty in their deaths. A small place like Little Hangleton doesn’t wear out stories like that in a mere fifty years. Especially with the house still standing empty …”

“He killed his father and grandparents?” I said, appalled by the total lack of filial respect, and the utter bloodthirstiness of such a massacre.

“Yes.” my friend replied. “At the tender age of sixteen.”

“Revenge for his abandonment?” I asked.

“Possibly in his father’s case. But the wanton slaying of his grandparents, who, judging by local reports, never even knew they had a grandchild, suggests that not only revenge, but racism was at work. Hatred of his own race. You will recall that the Wizarding connection was on his mother’s side.”

“Yes.” said Harry. “Dumbledore thinks he killed them to wipe out his muggle ancestry. …”

“Might not that too have been considered a momentous occasion? At least as much as the abuse of a pair of children? … I have already been over the Riddles’ house and its grounds fairly thoroughly, but I wasn’t looking for horcruxes at the time. The cup of Helga Hufflepuff, can you describe it?”

“I saw it in a … recorded memory that Dumbledore showed me. It’s made of gold, it’s got two handles, and there’s a badger engraved on it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I saw nothing of that description. But that doesn’t rule out either horcrux being hidden there.

“We’ll check the Riddle house then.” said Harry. “After we know what the last one is.”

“The Riddles’ house and the bathroom at Hogwarts …” said Sherlock.

“Actually, I can’t think of any way to hide a horcrux in the bathroom.” said Harry. “I mean – if we manage to get into Hogwarts – we could look, but I doubt …”

“Then where in the school would it be? You must know the place. … He would have known the place too. … If you wanted to hide something in Hogwarts, Harry, where would you put it? Pretend for a moment that you have something to hide and only a few minutes to do it in. You don’t want to put it where anyone, especially a teacher, will stumble across it. You have to be able to get there and back quickly before anyone realizes you haven’t gone straight for the headmaster’s office. Now tell me, where have you put it?”

So quickly that I thought he must be telling us not where he _would_ hide something, but where he _had_ hidden something, Harry quipped out:

“The Room of Requirement. … It’s a shape-shifting room in Hogwarts. It changes shape based on what you need. One of the things it turns into is a great big storage room … A lot of people have hidden things in there over the centuries, it’s filled with all sorts of things. … Like an overstuffed attic.”

“Hide it among the tumbled secrets of school-children…” mused Sherlock. “Yes … a single important artefact in a room like that – isn’t a haystack the best place to hide a needle? … It _would_ have been possible for him to get into that room during that evening?”

“Definitely … if he knew that it existed.”

“We’ll have to check both, of course. With Riddle in power it will require infiltration, but you know the place. And the Riddle house. That one is easy. It’s standing empty. We can just stop by and give it a run over. Any other suggestions? You’ll know his history far better than I do of course. Places where he worked, or lived, or killed somebody important …”

“He worked at Borgin & Burke’s – that’s a Wizarding shop that caters to the dark magic crowd – for a while after he left Hogwarts.” said Harry. “And he’s spent a lot of time in Albania over the course of his life.”

“Albania? Why Albania? And a country is too big to go on, we’d have to narrow that down a bit before we tried to search it.”

“I don’t know where, just Albania.”

“Well, if we run out of places to look in England, we’ll have to try tracing his footsteps in Albania. But let’s try England first. A shop sounds like a bad place to hide a horcrux. Too many people, and a _brilliant_ way to get a trinket like a cup or a locket accidentally sold. But I suppose we can look. And there’s another thing. What about people? You said he left the diary with Lucius Malfoy? Who is Lucius Malfoy? Who else might be an equivalent to him? Who else among Riddle’s people might he be willing to entrust so important a device to?”

Harry sat there for a while without answering, arms crossed, shoulders slumped, staring into the carpet. Pain chased itself across his face as he thought. In asking him to judge among Tom Riddle’s followers, Sherlock was asking him to relive all his most painful memories. I considered all that had been said and implied this evening – both parents murdered, multiple murderous attempts on his own life, his godfather’s death at the hands of that cousin, the recent death of a clearly beloved teacher. … After what seemed a very long time indeed, Harry started listing names; odd names, that fell on my ear with the ring of a strange language. Two of the names stood out to me, not for peculiarity of syllable, but for the anger they roused in the young speaker; Bellatrix Lestrange and Severus Snape. Mrs. Lestrange was the cousin who had killed Sirius; she had struck him down in battle when he had come with ‘the Order’ to save Harry and some friends, who had been trapped by some of Riddle’s forces. The name Severus Snape was familiar, for the fake ghost downstairs had called the name. It was against _him_ that the booby-traps had been intended. Snape had been a professor at Hogwarts. It was at his hands that Headmaster Dumbledore had died, not two months before. He was now openly serving Riddle. That the thought of him raised Harry’s indignation did not surprise me. Harry could not seem to help but stop and briefly lambaste Snape’s villainy and treachery before continuing his list.

Finally, Sherlock asked him if there was any incontrovertible way of telling if something was a horcrux or not. Harry knew of no foolproof test, but was able to say that both horcruxes which had been destroyed so far had put up some kind of a fight. The diary had set the basilisk on him – and seemed to _think_ that it was going to duel him somehow. The ring had withered Dumbledore’s hand.

The night was growing old. Miss Granger was sitting bolt upright in a failing attempt to remain alert. Ron had long since slumped over on the sofa beside her. Even Harry, though still eager, was drooping. It was clear the children at least could do no more that night.

“You might as well get a few hours sleep, John.” Sherlock commented (though he himself showed no signs of weariness). “It’s too late to go home tonight.”

A very short while ago, I would have shrunk from the notion of sleeping in this place, but it seemed that weariness had done away with my fastidiousness, for when Miss Granger offered me one of their blankets I accepted without question, and scarcely noticed the children’s own preparations, or the sort of camp they set up with cushions and sleeping bags in a corner. As I was drifting off, Sherlock appeared at my shoulder and spoke to me in an undertone.

“John, can I have your gun?”

Sleepily handing it to him, I inquired: “Worried they’ll try to obliviate you in the middle of the night, eh?”

Chuckling, he stowed it away in his own coat. “ _That_ is the _least_ of my reasons.”

I remember nothing more that night save a brief image of Sherlock Holmes, curled up in an armchair by the empty hearth, his old briar pipe in his hands, and his face illuminated by a flash of fire.


End file.
